Krampus: The Three Sisters (The Krampus Chronicles Book 1) (2 page)

Also, Louis’ gangling body was similar to Maggie’s own boyish frame, so upon spying a stack of clothes casually folded on a nearby chair, Maggie snatched a pair of trousers and snuck away.

Two mirror image staircases wrapped downward through Chelsea Manor. Having stayed in the mansion many times, Maggie knew that the east staircase creaked, so she carefully drifted down the west one. In need of a shirt, Maggie stopped on the second floor landing. One large lonely door led to Grandfather Clement’s master chamber, while the other bedrooms housed Catharine, Clemmie, Maggie’s parents, and all the remaining relatives. And just as she had done earlier, Maggie crept into one of the rooms and came out gripping a beige shirt.

When Maggie reached the main floor, she momentarily paused and listened. Normally, the servants wouldn’t be there for another hour, but being Christmas Eve Day, Maggie thought they might arrive earlier to prepare for the evening’s meal. But she heard nothing.

Maggie crossed the circular stair hall to the music room. Her brown hair was held in a tightly pinned bun, and she hurriedly put the borrowed clothes over her nightgown. And then a dense coat on top of that. Tucking her hands into her sleeves, she opened the door that led to the west porch.

Maggie’s exposed face tingled in the cold air. The roads were quiet as she stared out at the untouched snowy ground of the estate. There were no carriages to be seen and even the regular locomotives weren’t running this early. But beyond the railroad tracks, the Hudson River flowed freely.

Maggie hopped off the porch and found her sled tucked beneath the steps. The paint on the pinewood was beginning to peel, but its vibrant royal blue color still looked brand-new. Two mustard-colored stripes ran across the top and bottom of the sled, framing a red-painted badger wrapped in a cluster of ivy. The sled didn’t feel as big as it once did, but Maggie planned to ride it until its metal runners fell off.

Gripping the ends of the sled, Maggie pranced to the back of Chelsea Manor, which was the clearest of trees. She dropped the sled where the hill dipped and jumped on top, sinking the runners into the immaculate snow.

Maggie glided the sled forward until the earth’s natural pull took hold.And then down she went.

Maybe it was Maggie’s excitement, or possibly the freshness of the snow that morning.

Or maybe it was an aging sled wanting an extraordinary final run.

Or perhaps, just maybe, the planet had momentarily shifted on its axis, making hills steeper, snow slicker, and sleds faster.

As the sled continued to gain speed, causing brittle ice crystals to dot her face and blur her sight, Maggie was struck with panic. The sled wasn’t going to stop before reaching the stone wall overlooking the street, she realized.

But before the sled was airborne, visions from last night’s dream flashed through her mind.

There
was
another figure. And St. Nicholas
had
been pushed.

Then into the air Maggie flew, over the wall and above the city’s gravel road.

But only for a moment.

The ground quickly moved up and met her sled with a violent
thud
.

And then all went dark.

aggie tasted wet salt as a cold blend of snow and blood soaked her lips.

“Are you all right, Miss?”

The voice sounded distant, but a warm breath grazed her cheeks.

“Miss?”

Squinting, Maggie opened her eyes―first the right and then the left.

“Are you all right?”

An unfamiliar face bent over her supine body. The young man looked around Clemmie’s age of seventeen. A felt cap sat upon his puffy bronze hair, and there was a dimple in his chin that Maggie focused on until the gray sky stopped spinning.

“Are you hurt?” The stranger kneeled next to her, one arm casually propped on his leg while the other hand carefully touched the side of her head. “That was quite a fall.”

Maggie slowly steadied herself upon her elbows as pebbles from the road roughly dug into her skin. She spotted the sled partially buried in snow a few feet away. But it didn’t look broken.

“Perhaps this will be of use.” The man took a long handkerchief out of his coat pocket. Grabbing a fistful of snow, he swiftly packed a snowball into the handkerchief then tied it tightly. He placed the cold, round cloth into Maggie’s palm. When she didn’t move, he smiled and guided her hand up to her bleeding bottom lip.

“You also have a small bruise on your forehead.” The man pushed his cap back on his head as his radiant blue eyes examined the top of Maggie’s face. “But I think you’ll survive.”

Maggie looked at the wall surrounding Chelsea estate where she had just dropped. Her back ached and her head throbbed, but she was glad it hadn’t been much worse.

The stranger continued to watch her closely.

“Who are you?” Maggie asked.

The man’s face relaxed and his eyes widened.

“Henry.”

Maggie stared blankly at Henry who returned her gaze with a look of concern.

“And do you know your name?” he gently asked.

Flustered more by Henry’s presence than from the sledding accident, Maggie struggled to find words. Each time his eyes scanned her face, her mind dizzied and her mouth went dry.

“Maggie,” she finally murmured. “My name is Maggie.”

Henry gave her a fleeting smile. “What are you doing outside at this hour?”

She thought the answer to the question seemed somewhat obvious and she weakly pointed to her sled lying nearby.

Henry cocked his head to look.

“I went sledding before the others woke up,” she explained.

“Others?”

“My family,” Maggie said, nodding toward Chelsea Manor.

Henry looked up the hill to the Manor then stared back at Maggie.

“You are related to Clement Clarke Moore?”

She couldn’t pinpoint Henry’s exact tone. It seemed like feigned admiration and, unless she had imagined it, a bit of disdain.

Maggie nodded. “Are you a student?”

Most young men in the neighborhood attended the General Theological Seminary down the road. Besides being built on his Chelsea property, Grandfather Clement had also taught at the seminary before his retirement. Although the name Clement Clarke Moore was recognized throughout New York, Henry’s response was similar to the other students who knew the professor as somewhat of a legendary figure.

“A student?” Henry repeated, seeming confused.

Maggie began to wonder if Henry had actually been the one to smack his head in a sledding collision.

“At the seminary,” Maggie said, looking down the avenue where the large brick campus could be easily spotted.

“Oh, no, I’m not a student,” Henry said, following her gaze. “I’m from Poughkeepsie.”

“Poughkeepsie? What are you doing here?”

Henry seemed uncomfortable with the attention and he leaned back on his knees, shifting his blue eyes away from Maggie’s face for the first time. She instantly missed the intensity of his stare.

“I was just picking up a few things for Christmas Eve,” he stammered.

“Down in New York?”

“The shops in Poughkeepsie are closed today, and I thought I’d have better luck in the city.” Henry nodded to a carriage with a brown-spotted horse standing in the street.

Now it was Maggie’s turn to be baffled. She shook her head, convinced the fall had knocked something loose. “You took a carriage from Poughkeepsie to pick up a few things? And then you’re going all the way back today?”

Even if weather and road conditions were ideal, the trip from Poughkeepsie to New York would be a day of travel each way. Although Maggie rarely ventured outside of the city, she still recognized there was no logic in that.

“How do you make such a trip in one day?” Maggie blinked several times. “Is that a flying carriage you have there?”

“Uh, actually,” Henry stuttered as his face became flushed. “I was visiting an acquaintance here in New York the last couple of days. I am now returning home to Poughkeepsie, but I’m picking up some items before I leave.”

Henry couldn’t hide the dishonesty in his tone. But Maggie wasn’t too concerned with the young man’s whereabouts. So she attempted to diffuse the unease created by his puzzling explanation.

“Can you help me up?” Maggie sweetly reached out her arms.

Henry seemed taken aback again. “Why, of course.” He shot up from the ground, brushed the snow off his knees and then helped Maggie to her feet. His gloves were warm against her exposed pink hands.

Maggie stared up at his glowing face. “How old are you?”

She didn’t mean to ask the question. It just slipped out.

Henry raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Nineteen.”

Silently, Maggie concluded that their five-year age difference would someday not seem so significant.

“Would you…” Maggie started to say, but stopped. She wanted to invite Henry to Chelsea Manor for breakfast. But then Maggie pictured her older sister drifting down the stairs and arriving in the dining room, looking as beautiful and refreshed as always, and Henry falling for Catharine’s charms as most people did.

“Would you… show me your horse?” Maggie finally said. But she didn’t wait for a response before heading over to the carriage.

“Hello, girl,” Maggie said, rubbing circles along the animal’s coat.

“Boy,” Henry playfully corrected, coming up beside Maggie. “His name’s Dunder.” Henry caressed the horse’s long muzzle, and Dunder responded with an affectionate nudge.

Maggie scrunched her nose. “Dunder? Sounds like the noise my brother makes when clearing his throat.”

Henry chuckled and gave Maggie a wink, causing her stomach to uncomfortably whirl. “Dunder is the Dutch word for thunder.”

“Well then, Mr. Dunder,” Maggie said, patting the horse’s side and trying not to think about Henry’s striking eyes. “Since you’re a Dutch horse, does that mean you wear wooden clogs on your hooves?”

Maggie hoped Henry would appreciate her rather witty quip, but the Poughkeepsie man appeared lost in thought as he stroked Dunder’s mane.

“Tell me, Maggie,” Henry finally said and Maggie’s ears perked up. “How are you related to Clement Clarke Moore?”

Disappointed that the conversation had turned back to her family, Maggie indifferently replied, “He’s my grandfather.”

There was a pause before Henry asked, “Well, what do you think of him?”

Maggie slid closer to Henry as she rubbed the horse’s neck. “He’s beautiful.”

Henry appeared perplexed at her response, but then he gave an amused smile. “No, not the horse. What do you think of your grandfather?”

Maggie furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?”

“Well, is Clement Clarke Moore the man his writing makes him out to be?” Henry uneasily stared out toward the river. “Would you say he’s, uh, full of the Christmas spirit?”

Maggie eyed Henry inquisitively. “You mean to ask about his poem?”

It was no secret that even though Grandfather Clement had led a successful life as a professor and scholar, most people associated him with his famous poem.

Something Grandfather Clement severely resented.

“He is the writer of
‘Twas the Night Before Christmas
,” Henry remarked dryly. “Is he not?”